The Grey Cloak by Harold MacGrath (uplifting book club books .txt) 📕

Is this person a father? Congratulations. Monsieur, the king's uncle, is ailing; I romp to Blois. A cabal is being formed in Brussels; I gallop away. His Eminence hears of a new rouge; off I go. And here I have been to Rome and back with a message which made the pope laugh; is it true that he is about to appoint a successor? Mazarin, tiring of being a left-handed king, aspires to the mantle of Saint Peter. Mazarin always selects me for petty service. Why? Oh, Monsieur le Chevalier, having an income, need not be paid moneys; because Monsieur le Chevalier was born in the saddle, his father is an eagle, his grandsire was a centaur. And don't forget the grey cloak, lad, the apple of my eye, the admiration of the ladies, and the confusion of mine enemies; my own particular grey cloak." By this time the Chevalier was getting into his clothes; fine cambrics, silk hose, velvet pantaloons, grey doublet, and shoes with buckles and red heels.

"But the grey cloak, Monsieur Paul . . ." began the lackey.

"What! you have dared to soil it?"

"No, Monsieur; but you have forgotten that you loaned it to Monsieur de Saumaise, prior to your departure to Italy. He has not returned it."

"That's not like Victor. And I had dreamed of wearing that cloak. Mademoiselle complimented me on it, and that fop De Montausier asked me how many pistoles I paid for it."

"The purple cloak is new, Monsieur. It is fully as handsome as the grey one. All it lacks is the square collar you invented."

"Ah well, since there is no grey cloak. Now the gossip. First of all, my debts and debtors."

"Monsieur de Saumaise," said Breton, "has remitted the ten louis he lost to you at tennis."

"There's a friend; ruined himself to do it. Poetry and improvidence; how they cling together!"

"Brisemont, the jeweler, says that the garters you ordered will come to one hundred and ten pistoles. But he wants to know what the central gem shall be, rubies or sapphires surrounding."

"Topaz for the central gem, rubies and diamonds for the rest. The clasps must match topaz eyes. And they must be done by Monday."

"Monsieur's eyes are grey," the lackey observed slyly.

"Rascal, you are asking a question!"

"No, Monsieur, I was simply stating a fact. Plutarch says . . ."

"Plutarch? What next?" in astonishment.

"I have just bought a copy of Amyot's translation with the money you gave me. Plutarch is fine, Monsieur."

"What shall a gentleman do when his lackey starts to quote Plutarch?" with mock helplessness. "Well, lad, read Plutarch and profit. But keep your grimy hands off my Rabelais, or I'll trounce you."

Breton flushed guiltily. If there was one thing he enjoyed more than another it was the adventures of the worthy Pantagruel and his resourceful esquire; but he had never been able to complete this record of extravagant exploits, partly because he could not read fast enough and partly because his master kept finding new hiding places for it.

"A messenger from De Guitaut," he said, "called this morning for you."

"For me? That is strange. The captain knew that I could not arrive before to-night, which is the twentieth."

"I told the officer that. He laughed curiously and said that he expected to find you absent."

"What the devil did he call for, then?"

Breton made a grimace which explained his inability to answer this question.

The Chevalier stood still and twisted his mustache till the ends were like needle-points. "Horns of Panurge! as Victor would say; is it possible for any man save Homer to be in two places at once? Possibly I am to race for some other end of France. I like it not. Mazarin thinks because I am in her Majesty's Guards that I belong to him. Plague take him, I say."

He snapped the buckles on his shoes, while Breton drew from its worn scabbard the Chevalier's campaign rapier, long and flexile, dreaded by many and respected by all, and thrust it into the new scabbard,

"Ah, Monsieur," said Breton, stirred by that philosophy which, one gathers from a first reading of Plutarch, "a man is a deal like a sword. If he be good and true, it matters not into what kind of scabbard he is thrust."

"Aye, lad; but how much more confidence a handsome scabbard gives a man! Even a sword, dressed well, attracts the eye; and, heart of mine, what other aim have we poor mortals than to attract?"

"Madame Boisjoli makes out her charges at twelve louis, including the keep of the horses."

"That is reasonable, considering my absence. Mignon is an excellent woman."

"The Vicomte d'Halluys did not come as he promised with the eight hundred pistoles he lost to you at vingt-et-un ."

"Ah!" The Chevalier studied the pattern in the rug. "Eh, well, since I had no pistoles, I have lost none. I was deep in wine, and so was he; doubtless he has forgotten. The sight of me will recall his delinquency."

"That is all of the debts and credits, Monsieur."

"The gossip, then, while I trim my nails. Paris can not have stood still like the sun of Joshua's time, simply because I was not here."

"Beaufort has made up with Madame de Montbazon."

"Even old loves can become new loves. Go on."

Breton recounted the other important court news, while the Chevalier nodded, or frowned, as the news affected him.

"Mademoiselle Catharine . . ."

"Has that woman been here again?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"You attended her down the stairs?"

"I did, but she behaved coarsely and threatened not to cease coming until you had established her in the millinery."

The Chevalier roared with laughter. "And all I did was to kiss the lass and compliment her cheeks. There's a warning for you, lad."

Breton looked aggrieved. His master's gallantries never ceased to cause him secret unrest.

"Yesterday your quarterly remittance from Monsieur le Marquis, your father, arrived."

"Was there a letter?" with subdued eagerness.

"There was nothing but the gold, Monsieur," answered Breton, his eyes lowered. How many times during the past four years had his master asked this question, always to receive the same answer?

The Chevalier's shoulders drooped. "Who brought it?"

"Jehan," said the lackey.

"Had he anything to say?"

"Very little. Monsieur le Marquis has closed the chateau in Périgny and is living at the hôtel in Rochelle."

"He mentions my name?"

"No, Monsieur."

The Chevalier crossed the room and stood by one of the windows. It was snowing ever so lightly. The snow-clouds, separating at times as they rushed over the night, discovered the starry bowl of heaven. Some noble lady's carriage passed surrounded by flaring torches. But the young man saw none of these things. A sense of incompleteness had taken hold of him. The heir to a marquisate, the possessor of an income of forty thousand livres the year, endowed with health and physical beauty, and yet there was a flaw which marred the whole. It was true that he was light-hearted, always and ever ready for a rout, whether with women or with men, whether with wine or with dice; but under all this brave show there was a canker which ate with subtile slowness, but surely. To be disillusioned at the age of sixteen by one's own father! To be given gold and duplicate keys to the wine-cellars! To be eye-witness of Roman knights over which this father had presided like a Tiberius!

The Duchesse de Montbazon had been in her youth a fancy of the marquis, his father. Was it not a fine stroke of irony to decide that this son of his should marry the obscure daughter of madame?-the daughter about whom very few had ever heard? Without the Chevalier's sanction, miniatures had been exchanged. When the marquis presented him with that of Mademoiselle de Montbazon, together with his desires, he had ground the one under foot without glancing at it, and had laughed at the other as preposterous. Since that night the marquis had ceased to recall his name. The Chevalier's mother had died at his birth; thus, he knew neither maternal nor paternal love; and a man must love something which is common with his blood. Even now he would have gone half-way, had his father's love come to meet him. But no; Monsieur le Marquis loved only his famous wines, his stories, and his souvenirs. Bah! this daughter had been easily consoled. The Comte de Brissac was fully sixty. The Chevalier squared his shoulders and shifted his baldric.

With forced gaiety he turned to his lackey. "Lad, let us love only ourselves. Self-love is always true to us. We will spend our gold and play the butterfly while the summer lasts. It will be cold soon, and then . . . pouf! To-morrow you will take the gold and balance my accounts."

"Yes, Monsieur. Will Monsieur permit a familiarity by recalling a forbidden subject?"

"Well?"

"Monsieur le Comte de Brissac died last night," solemnly.

"What! of old age?" ironically.

"Of steel. A gallant was entering by a window, presumably to entertain madame, who is said to be young and as beautiful as her mother was. Monsieur le Comte appeared upon the scene; but his guard was weak. He was run through the neck. The gallant wore a mask. That is all I know of the scandal."

"Happy the star which guided me from the pitfall of wedded life! What an escape! I must inform Monsieur le Marquis. He will certainly relish this bit of scandal which all but happened at his own fireside. Certainly I shall inform him. It will be like caviar to the appetite. I shall dine before the effect wears off." The Chevalier put on his hat and cloak, and took a final look in the Venetian mirror. "Don't wait for me, lad; I shall be late. Perhaps to-night I shall learn her name."

Breton smiled discreetly as his master left the room. Between a Catharine of the millinery and a mysterious lady of fashion there was no inconsiderable difference.


CHAPTER III

THE MUTILATED HAND

"Monsieur Paul?" cried the handsome widow of Monsieur Boisjoli, stepping from behind the pastry counter.

"Yes, Mignon, it is I," said the Chevalier; "that is, what remains of me."

"What happiness to see you again!" she exclaimed. She turned to a waiter. "Charlot, bring Monsieur le Chevalier the pheasant pie, the ragout of hare, and a bottle of chambertin from the bin of '36."

"Sorceress!" laughed the Chevalier; "you have sounded the very soul of me. Thanks, Mignon, thanks! Next to love, what is more to a man than a full stomach? Ah, you should have seen me when I came in! And devil take this nose of mine; not even steam and water have thawed the frost from it." He chucked her under the chin and smiled comically, all of which made